Burning City

by Ariel Dorfman

  “Lucky is from Chile,” Salim said, then noticed something. “What’s that?”

  “What’s what?” Heller asked.

  Salim pointed to the drink in front of Heller.

  Heller looked at Lucky.

  Lucky looked at Salim, said, “Jack and Coke,” and, before Salim could say anything, added, “I bought it for him.”

  “When?”

  “When you were in the bathroom,” Heller said.

  “That was an hour and a half ago.”

  Lucky and Heller looked at each other, a pair of children caught with an armful of cookies before dinner.

  “And then I bought him another one,” Lucky admitted.

  “And another one,” Heller said.

  “And then another one, I suppose?” Salim asked.

  “Yes,” the two of them confessed.

  Salim nodded. “Well . . . we are in a bar.” He put a hand on Heller’s shoulder, squeezed. “And we are all friends, so if it has to happen anywhere, at least it is among those we care about.”

  Salim stood up and walked to the bar. Heller watched him leave, eyes full of wonder. Salim began talking to Zephyr, relaying a story, full of excitement and a charisma that demanded attention. Heller remembered something and turned back to Lucky.

  “You were born in Chile?” Heller asked, interested.

  “I was born in Amsterdam.”

  “Are you Dutch?”

  “No.”

  “You’re Chilean, though, right?”

  “My parents are, I lived there for a while; doesn’t make me Chilean.”

  “So . . .” Heller was trying to put it together. “You’re American.”

  Lucky’s eyes focused inward for a moment. He shrugged slightly. “I don’t know what it means to be American. Do you know what it means?”

  Heller shook his head.

  “Hard to understand . . . ,” Lucky said. “Just look at Salim. Half and half.”

  “Half and half of what?”

  “Half and half of . . . everything.” Lucky let smoke trickle from his lips. “Half spiritualist, half sensualist. Half Turk, half Kurd. Half sane, half madman. Half saint, half fool.” Salim’s voice burst through the din of the bar, a proclamation about Paris. “And by the end of tonight, I suspect, half gin, half tonic.”

  Heller nodded. He let his eyes wander, left Lucky to his own thoughts. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the picture he had taken from Silvia earlier that day. He held it close, squinted in the face of all that late-night light. Form slowly began to take shape as his eyes adjusted. Silvia sitting by a window, reading a book, unaware of the camera’s presence, playing with a strand of hair. Dressed in an undershirt and orange shorts. Sunlight was pouring over her, giving her a yellow aura. She looked like a blissfully uniformed goddess.

  Heller glanced up, saw Lucky lost, mind elsewhere. “Lucky?”

  Lucky snapped to attention in one swift movement, waved for Heller to go on.

  “Do you know anything about Chilean women?”

  Lucky gave a slight smile. Very slight, as though his lips were remembering a fuller version that had been there at some point far past. He lit a cigarette and took a pull at his beer. “My first true love,” he said. “My first true love, the one that still seems true in retrospect, she was Chilean.”

  “What was she like?”

  Lucky thought about it before saying, “She understood the importance of staying up until dawn.”

  “So you know some things about Chilean women. . . .”

  “If I did, I’d probably still be with her.” Lucky glanced at the picture Heller was holding. He nodded, understanding. “You should speak to someone else about these things. You should speak to Salim. . . .”

  Lucky stood, a sadness mixed among his cigarette smoke. He grabbed Wanda’s arm as she walked by, drew her close.

  “Dance with me, Wanda,” he said.

  “You miss Helena?”

  Lucky nodded.

  “Oh, Lucky, you poor lunatic.”

  “The world’s coming to an end, Wanda.”

  “I know.”

  “Let’s dance.”

  Wanda put her arms around Lucky and the two started swaying to the music. The Haitians at the end of the bar riled up in a chorus of yells and cheers of encouragement. Zephyr, Velu, and Christoph put their hands together, laughing.

  “Music!” Zephyr yelled.

  Heller watched them dance. His mind began to whirl lightly, the room losing its edge, falling into itself, a very subtle tilt. Heller watched Lucky and Wanda dance, eyes closed, floating with their feet ten steps under city streets.

  “Jealous, my young friend?”

  Heller found that Salim had managed to sneak back to the table. Leaning back in his chair, legs crossed, crafty expression full of mirth.

  “Why would I be jealous?” Heller asked.

  “Wanda is beautiful—you told me earlier.”

  Heller glanced down at the photograph in his hands, then handed it over to Salim. Salim accepted it, took his time looking over it. He glanced up, stared at Heller.

  “I have a girlfriend,” Heller said, tossing his shoulders back, sticking out his chest, and downing his drink. “I don’t have to be jealous of anyone.”

  Salim continued to stare at him.

  The song ended, and applause filled the room.

  “You have a girlfriend,” Salim said. “That deserves a drink.”

  “Allow me,” Heller said, standing up.

  He walked to the bar with a spring in his step. Cut through the crowd, managed to squeeze his way between two seats and motion for Janet, the bartender. “Gin and tonic, Jack and Coke!”

  Janet nodded, went for the drinks, taking in three other orders and barking commands to the other staff on the floor.

  Heller looked around, still wondering at the sudden change in dimension the bar had taken. He looked down the bar. Heller frowned, blinked, eyelids scraping against his eyeballs.

  There, at the farthest end, sitting in a corner, was Dimitri Platonov. He was alone, brooding over a Stolichnaya on the rocks. Next to him, seated in place of company, was the rest of the bottle. Heller saw Dimitri finish his drink, take the bottle, and refill his glass.

  It was like watching the sun come out in the middle of the night, a falling star moving up toward the sky. Heller began to walk over. Slowly. Cautiously, wondering what had brought Dimitri underground, if he was even there. Shoulders, elbows, and hips rubbed against him, words jumbled, dissected, re-forming in his head from a hundred different mouths.

  He made it to the end of the bar.

  “Gin and tonic, Jack and Coke, bike boy!”

  Heller turned around, saw Janet slide the drinks in front of him, both adorned with red straws.

  “How much?” he asked.

  “Christoph’s buying!”

  Heller looked across the room, saw Christoph wave. He waved back, picked up his drinks, turned back to Dimitri.

  Turned back to an empty table.

  Heller looked around, caught sight of the door to the bar closing, someone hurrying up the stairs, out into the night. He jostled his way through the crowd again, drink in either hand, their contents sloshing around, small waves breaking free, running down his hands, dripping onto the floor.

  He made it to the door. Looked through the glass, up the steps.

  No sign of Dimitri.

  It was deep nighttime.

  Heller’s bike was still chained to the tree, just as he had left it.

  He stood there for a long time.

  chapter fourteen

  They emerged from Creole Nights, out into the open, laughing like a couple of fools.

  Heller was drunk.

  Salim was doing an admirable job of holding his liquor as well as holding Heller upright as they made their way over to Heller’s bike. Salim’s laughter died down and he began to sing, Turkish words, meaning lost to Heller.

  “Ondort binyil gezdim pervanelikde . . .�
��

  Heller dropped his chin onto his chest, tried singing along. “Ondo inle, guess dim, punderva . . .”

  “No, no,” Salim corrected. “Ondort.”

  “Ondor . . .”

  “. . . Binyil.”

  “Bindeal . . .”

  “Pervanelikde . . .”

  “Per—” Heller burped. “Pervanedlined.”

  It set them off laughing again. A couple walked by, saw the pair slapping each other on the back, and drew closer to each other. Salim tried to help Heller onto his bike while Heller looked after the frightened couple.

  “My girlfriend is so beautiful,” Heller said, words slurred.

  “Hmm.” Salim crossed his arms. “What is her favorite author?”

  “She’s got eyes . . . ,” Heller continued. “Eyes, Salim, so dark you could just . . . fall into them. Lose your keys.”

  “How do you spend time together?”

  “Fantastic body . . .”

  “Heller?”

  “Unbelievable smile . . .”

  “What’s her last name?”

  Heller raised his head, steadied it. “What?”

  “What’s her last name?”

  Heller thought about it. Thought about it some more.

  “Heller?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “You don’t have a girlfriend.”

  Heller was about to protest, stopped. He nodded drunkenly, gave Salim a pat on the shoulder.

  “To Paris.”

  He started pedaling down the sidewalk. It wouldn’t keep still, and Heller wobbled, stopped, and toppled over into a pile of full garbage cans. He stared up at the sky through the branches of a tree, didn’t see any stars. Water from that day’s rainstorm dampened his shirt, soaked into his skin.

  Salim entered his field of vision.

  Heller smiled up at him.

  “Heller,” Salim said, arms still crossed, “you don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Yeah, well, you don’t have a girlfriend, either.”

  Salim stared up at the skies, focused on something, said:

  “What is she doing now?

  Right now, this instant?

  Is she in the house or outside?

  Maybe she is petting a kitten on her lap.

  Or maybe she’s walking, about to take a step—

  those beloved feet that take her straight to me

  On my dark days.

  And what is she thinking about—me?”

  Heller sighed, made himself comfortable in the trash. “Nazim Hikmet?”

  “You remember.”

  Heller smiled slightly, held up a small wooden horse.

  “Look what I found. . . .”

  Salim nodded.

  Heller lost track of his senses. . . .

  chapter fifteen

  He remembered a few things.

  Salim walking down a small city street, lit by the orange of streetlights. Heller hanging off him, trying to mumble words of caution, that his bike should be handled softly. Salim slowing his steps to make sure the bike didn’t suffer too much damage. An intersection, Salim mentioning something about Nizima, something about standing free under the sky with no walls to imprison the sight of the night stars. Heller stopping at a bench, sitting down, throwing up. Salim offering a handkerchief. A stray dog sometime later. The door to his grandparents’ apartment. Lying in bed, on his stomach, holding Silvia’s photograph in his hand. Watching her closely.

  Barely able to stay awake.

  chapter Sixteen

  It didn’t sound like his alarm clock.

  Heller just assumed. He stirred, opened his eyes.

  It was morning. The sunlight cut through his eyes, and he snapped them shut. He let out a meager whimper. His mouth was dry, the corners of his lips decorated with spit. Sweat covered his body. Heller had forgotten to get out of his clothes. The evening’s events came back to him disguised as a headache. The sound of his alarm continued on through this, and it slowly dawned on Heller that it was the phone.

  Phone call.

  Slowly, very slowly, Heller rolled onto his back. He reached out, picked up the phone, trying to move as little as possible. Put the receiver to his ear.

  “Hello?”

  Into his ear came a monstrous yell, “WAKEUUUUP!”

  Heller’s brain split in two, right down the middle, it seemed.

  He shot up, tried to shake the pain away, and fell onto the floor. Heller’s head hit the ground, ear still to the phone. The scream at the other end died down, replaced by the voice of Rich Phillips, loud and confident.

  Mostly loud.

  “A man with such a shaky future at this company has no business being late for work, Heller!”

  Heller stood up, his sudden elevation taking the room for a whirl. He clutched at his head, confused, and looked at the time.

  9:45.

  “How fast do you think you can ride?” Rich asked, a challenging note ringing through the wires.

  “What?” Heller croaked.

  “Because I’m already out the door, bike boy.”

  From somewhere in the background, Heller heard the sound of cheering, followed by Iggy’s voice, relaxed and reassured.

  “Heller, you alive there?”

  Heller looked around, searching for his shoes. “I’m not sure. . . .”

  “Well, never mind that. Rich is out the door with your first assignment, but I’ve laid down money that says you can beat him to the punch. You got a pen?”

  “I don’t have anything, Iggy.”

  “Then listen carefully: Rukes. A Mr. Durim Rukes. Thirteen twelve Greenwich Street.”

  “Near the West Side Highway?”

  “Just about, yeah.”

  “That’s on the other side of the planet!”

  “Not for Rich Phillips.”

  Heller spied his shoes, dove to the ground. “What happened?”

  “You sure you want this one?”

  “What happened to Rukes!?”

  “Wife and two kids,” Iggy told Heller as he put on his shoes. “Trying to get out of Albania, crossing to Italy. Boat capsized, hundred and twenty dead. This might not be the last we hear of this today.”

  Heller finished tying his laces, stood up, ready. “Thirteen twelve Greenwich Street?”

  “Go.”

  Heller ran out of the room, stopped at the front door.

  He ran back into his room and snatched the picture of Silvia off his pillow.

  Back into the living room. Heller saw an empty space by the door where his bike should have been. His heart leaped into his throat. He sized up the rest of the living room, ran into the kitchen, saw a note lying on the table. Heller ran over, picked it up, and read it: HAM IN FRIDGE.

  Heller crumpled the note, shoved it into his pocket, burst into his grandparents’ room. Nothing but the usual. Backing out, he turned, headed for the door to the apartment, opened it, ran down the steps, two at a time.

  Out the front door and onto the streets.

  His bike was waiting outside, fastened to a parking meter.

  Heller felt tears of relief surface.

  And before he could wonder how his bike had followed him home, he was on his knees, undoing the chain, muttering the address and details of his assignment, wondering just how fast he could make his bike go.

  Surely faster than Rich Phillips.

  chapter Seventeen

  Heller wished someone were recording the event—he was that certain that world records were being broken on every leg of the mad dash to Greenwich Street. He actually felt his body stretch as he approached what must have been the speed of light. Fifth Avenue, everything around him became a streaming tunnel. It was as though he were going through pedestrians instead of around them, diving into cars instead of having them swerve out of his path, feeling his wheels glide inches above the surface of the sidewalks and streets.

  He had already made it halfway across town and was now headed south, picturing Rich Phillips in his h
ead. What Heller hoped was that the construction that had been blocking the intersection at Bowery and Canal earlier that week was still as much a problem for traffic as it would be for Rich. If it didn’t force him to actually maneuver through the crowded streets of Chinatown, then at the very least it would slow him down.

  Heller pedaled even faster, the whirring sound of his wheels achieving a high-frequency whine, setting off dogs left and right, barking and giving chase, knocking over more garbage cans and tripping more people than Heller could ever have hoped to manage on his own.

  The day was blazing, and Heller mainlined the pain in his muscles and head into his bike, sweating bullets of alcohol. His sights were focused through the red spiderwebs pulsing in his eyes, acutely aware of every last detail standing out in the rush of oncoming danger.

  A gigantic truck stopped abruptly in the middle of the intersection of Fifth Avenue and Eighth, large body plastered with a TOYS “R” US sign.

  There was no way to get around it, and Heller tucked his head down, tilting his bike at a slight angle and coasting directly underneath. His hair caressed its belly and Heller was suddenly past it, rocketing through Washington Square Park.

  He parted the crowds with a loud yell: “TO THE GRAND TOUR!”

  It was an epic sight to watch the throng divide, split in half. It was like having a crowd cheer him on at the final stages of a race.

  But Heller knew the race was not quite over, and in front of him, alongside Washington Square South, a huge construction site had been erected overnight. The same sort of obstacle that Heller had counted on to slow Rich Phillips was now in his path, threatening to spoil his scheme.

  Heller had only seconds to think, but it was all he needed.

  Rich may have been deterred by the construction on the Lower East Side, but not Heller. These were Heller’s streets, and he was not about to surrender them to a construction site just because someone somewhere had gotten the notion that progress would be a good idea.

  Bearing down, Heller rode straight past the construction signs, into a thicket of potholes, planks, and heavy machinery. Nobody had time to stop him as he careened up a ramp at top speed, popping onto the second story of construction. He refused to stop, determined to make history in his own eyes if nobody else’s.